


Just like me.  Deep and Blue.

by APgeeksout



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:31:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bar is close to empty, the cold that chewed through his leather jacket all through last night’s stakeout and on the quick walk up the block from the hotel convincing all but the most determined locals to do their drinking at home.  He wonders again why he didn’t point the car south when they left Wyoming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just like me.  Deep and Blue.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, Dean Winchester! Title snagged from Ben Lee's "Birthday Song".

The bar is close to empty, the cold that chewed through his leather jacket all through last night’s stakeout and on the quick walk up the block from the hotel convincing all but the most determined locals to do their drinking at home.  He wonders again why he didn’t point the car south when they left Wyoming. 

Because there were Black Dogs in Northern Indiana that couldn’t give less of a shit about the end of the world.  And now can’t give a shit about anything anymore.  You’re welcome, South Bend.  Happy Birthday, Dean. 

Since there are all of six people in the place, including himself, the grizzled bartender nursing his own beer, and Sam - wherever the hell he’s hiding out, probably checking his voicemail for new instructions from his little demonic Yoda – there’s no mistaking what it means when the girl sinks onto the barstool right next to his own. 

“I’m Kayla,” she says.  She’s in lots of layers, not showing much skin – another reason to hate the cold – but her smile is crooked and maybe a little dangerous, and the denim-clad leg that barely brushes against his own does go _all_ the way down to the floor. 

“Dean,” he says, “What are you drinking?” 

Kayla is a tequila girl, and over a beer chaser, she says she’s drinking away her day at work, her incompetent manager, obnoxious customers. 

“What brings you here?” she asks, head at a tilt that sends a few loose brown curls tumbling over her shoulder. 

“Well, actually, it’s my birthday.  I was here getting a drink with my brother, but I think he must have gotten a better offer,” he says, gesturing at the half-empty beer going flat in front of the stool on his other side. 

“Happy birthday!” And her smile definitely promises trouble, if he wants it, when she asks, “Did you get everything you wished for?”

He doesn’t _do_ wishes anymore, but that’s not what she wants to hear.  Just like she doesn’t want to know that if he did still bother, he’d probably wish Sam were here, giving him shit about being an old man.  Or giving him shit about anything at all lately, instead of hanging around all strung out, watching him like he’s gonna crumble any second, or waiting for him to pass out so he can slink off to play with Ruby. 

Or that he’d wish he were gladder to see 30, to still be kicking around the world years after common sense says he should’ve been halfway to dust, decades younger than he feels on even a half-ass good day. 

Or that he hadn’t damned her and the bartender and the couple eating burgers in the corner and all their neighbors and the whole wide fucking world with one slice.  Or that the heavenly host would find someone stronger, someone better, someone _else_ to clean up the mess he was exactly weak enough to make.       

Or that he was drunk enough to close his eyes without seeing her trembling on the rack. 

She doesn’t need to hear any of that, so he knocks back another shot, stretches his own mouth into the shape that’s gotten him into more backseats and bedrooms than he can remember, and says, “Not quite, but maybe you can help me with that.” 

 

He lets himself back into the room around three, shivering and halfway back to sober from walking back through the cold, moving quietly until he realizes there’s no fucking point.  Sam’s bed is empty.  Again. 

It’s only when he hits the lights and flops down to wrestle with his boots that he notices his own is not.  Nestled on the pillows is a Styrofoam takeout container.  Inside is a stack of peanut butter cookies and a slice of pecan pie, and underneath, a fork and a napkin covered in Sam’s familiar scrawl.  _Happy 30th, Dean.  Hope she showed you a good time.  Sorry I couldn’t find you anything with a little more bran in it.  Maybe next year, Gramps._

The cookies were made with chunky peanut butter, the way he likes them best, and the pie looks delicious; flaky and sticky and sweet. He forgets for a second that he doesn’t do that kind of thing anymore and wishes he had the heart to eat any of it.

 


End file.
